“Here.” Raine handed him a coin. “Fetch us something to munch on.”
“Put your money away,” Carr said. “It won’t spend here.”
Griss drew up and Chaz jumped down from the wagon. He returned shortly with baskets of brown bread and grilled fish. The wagon rumbled on. As she ate, Raine took in the sights. People choked the streets in their best finery for the festival. The crowd was largely made up of Finlars in outrageous hats, but Raine spotted a few Tannish farmers in the mix as well as a group of dwarfish merchants in blue and white.
“Look, Rainey,” Chaz said, pointing at three tall figures gliding down the street. “Esmallan spice traders. Aren’t they funny?”
The spice traders stood out in their red and gold robes with high, stiff collars, and platform boots that lifted them head and shoulders above the mob.
“What funny shoes,” Raine remarked.
“Chopines,” Carr said. “It rains almost every day in Esmalla, and the chopines keep their feet dry. They aren’t so good on cobblestones—oops, there goes one of them now.” He slid Tyra a glance. “That’s him on his croup.”
Beer vendors offered samples on every corner. Singing, laughing, and whooping, the revelers exchanged opinions of this brew, or that. Griss made frequent stops to allow Raine and Tyra to sample the variety of ales. There were crisp amber beers that tasted of apples and pears, bready malts, dry beers with a hoppy, herbal finish, earthy bitters that tasted of wood and grass, copper-colored ales with nutty accents and toffeeish flavors, and rich porters with notes of roasted grains and dried fruits. Though the samples were small, Raine was lightheaded by the time they reached the market and alighted from the wagon. Carr tossed Griss a coin, and the driver went on his way.
“Now,” Raine said, taking a deep breath to clear her woozy head. “We shop.”
Two hours later, Raine paused to go over her list. Chaz had wandered off to watch a puppet show portraying the Adventures of Finn, and Carr stood at Raine’s side balancing a pile of packages. Shoppers flowed past him like water around a fallen log.
“Let’s see.” Raine nibbled on the end of her glove. “That’s a muhle board and a stakkers set for Chaz—be sure he doesn’t see them—two bolts of Esmallan silk—green for Glory and blue for the queen—and a dozen hams for Flame. I visited the armorer last moon, and he’s delivered the dragon skin cuffs and the baldric I had made for the rowan.”
“Dragon skin?” Carr rearranged his burden. “That’s not something you see every day.”
“It is if you have a growing dragon,” Raine said. “Flame has tripled in size since we arrived.”
“I’d give my eye for a dragon skin belt.” Carr flashed her a charming smile. “I hope you’ve remembered me.”
“You’ll have to wait and see,” Raine said, swallowing a smile. “I can mark Mauric and Raven off the list. I have knives for them.”
“Knives?” Tyra said with interest. “What kind?”
“Dragon tooth,” Raine said. “I had them made from Flame’s baby teeth. The handles are deer bone. Do you think they’ll like them?”
“Like?” Tyra said, her eyes wide. “I should think they will. ʼTis a princely gift.”
“You really think so? Good.” Raine consulted the parchment in her hand. “Tiny has been taken care of. Raven and I paid a visit to Berta Shartook weeks ago.”
“Berta Shartook, the sailmaker?” Carr said. “Has Raven commissioned a new ship?”
“No, she’s making a kilt for Tiny.”
“A kilt for—” Carr bobbled the packages in his arms. “You hired the finest sailmaker in Finlara to make a kilt for a giant? Why not go to a tailor, pray?”
“There aren’t any giant tailors in Finlara,” Raine said. “I checked. None in Udom, either, if you can believe it. There’s a market waiting to be tapped.”
“But…a sailmaker?”
“I needed wool, and lots of it, and Finlaran sails are made of wool. Problem solved.” Raine relieved him of a bolt of silk and tucked it under her arm. “The shoemaker is down the street. I’ve ordered Drifa some red slippers, since she admired a pair of Luanna’s. Then it’s on to the herbalist for Gertie, and we’re done.”
“Blessed Kron,” Tyra said. “You’re buying herbs for Gertie? Not a good idea.”
“Do I detect the voice of experience?” Raine asked.
“Aye.” Tyra shuddered. “I had one of Gertie’s tonics when I was little. I had a cough, and she dosed me. It was dreadful.”
“I know,” Raine said. “It seems foolish to arm her, but I’m out of ideas.” She ran her finger down the list of names. “Bother, I forgot Bree. I wanted to get him a staff.”
“Why?” Carr said. “Revered Brefreton is ancient, not feeble.”
“You’re right. A staff for a wizard—what was I thinking? New boots, then. His are a disgrace.”
“Ho, Raine, is that you?” Gurnst boomed, striding up to them with Chaz in tow. “I found the lad wandering.”
“Guess what, Raine?” Chaz said. “I saw Ilgtha at the puppet show. She seemed funny, like she had a bad smell in her nose.”
“A troll’s sense of smell is sharp, youngling,” Gurnst said, “and the city is noisome.” He nodded at Carr. “Roark.”
Carr shuffled the packages in his arms to shake the sailor’s hand. “Gurnst. How goes it?”
“It goes, it goes.” Gurnst eyed the heap of packages Carr was holding. “Got you toting their pretties, have they? Is that wise? Your sword arm ain’t free.”
The young warrior looked guilty. “The lady can hardly carry her own packages.”
“Because girls don’t have arms, you know,” Tyra said.
“Lady Tyra,” Carr said in exasperation, “I have apologized once, and I don’t—oh, Kron, there they go.”
Gurnst caught a box as it fell. “Easy, lad, I’ve got it. Got a new lady of my own these days, so I know how it is. Birgit and I jumped the broom.”
“What? You and Birgit are married?” Raine said, clapping her hands. “Gurnst, that’s wonderful news.”
Gurnst reddened. “Been alone a long time. Jaiden, my first wife, died when my boy was ten.”
“I’m happy for you both,” Raine said. “You must tell me all about it.”
“Not much to tell,” Gurnst said with an embarrassed cough. “I took Birgit and Aksel to Finald, like I was asked, and found Doran’s brother. Madd is his name.” He scowled. “Know now why Doran ran off to sea. Sullen as a northern dwarf, that one, and money-grubbing to boot. I’d already taken a shine to Birgit during the trip, but I didn’t say nothing. Too old for her, you know. We got to Finald, and I saw, at once, how the wind lay. I knew if I left Birgit and the boy with that one, all they’d get was a cuff on the cheek. Told Birgit to give him the damn medallion and come home with me.” He smiled shyly. “By Tro, she said yes, and here we are. Got us a little house down by the cove, me and Birgit and the boy.”
Raine clasped the sailor’s rough hand. “I’m glad. That’s what Doran would have wanted, I think, someone to take care of his family.”
“Thankee, milady.” He rubbed his belly. “What say we have a bite to eat to celebrate?”
“Yes, let’s,” Chaz said. “I’m hungry.”
“Again?” Raine said. “We just ate.”
“That was hours ago, Rainey.”
“Yes, I suppose it was.”
Gurnst looked at Carr. “That is, if it’s a’right with you, roark.”
“I think it’s a splendid idea.”
“Good,” Gurnst said. “Then I’ll—here, you, boy.” Gurnst motioned to a runner. “Come ʼere.”
He paid the young man to deliver the packages to the fast, and they made their way to a small pub situated on a prosperous square.
“The Claw and Horn,” Raine said, looking up at the sign over the door. “Gur
nst, is this your sister’s place?”
“You remember?” Gurnst looked pleased. “Aye, this is it.”
Raine followed the big sailor inside, blinking as her eyes adjusted to the dim light. The tavern was empty. A fire burned on the grate, and wooden tables were scattered about the room, waiting for customers.
The heavyset man behind the bar spotted Gurnst. “Ho, Gurnst, you old sea dog. Joyous Trolach.”
“Joyous Trolach, Valk,” Gurnst said. “You know the roark?”
Valk’s eyes widened in recognition. “M’ lord Carr, this is an honor.”
“Where is m’ sister?” Gurnst asked.
“In the kitchen, taking up a fresh batch of Fatty Finns.” Valk indicated the empty room. “As you can see, we’ve no customers. Everyone is attending the festival, but we’ve been selling pastries on the stoop.”
“You’ve customers, now.” Gurnst slapped some coins on the bar. “The roark and I will have a pitcher of ale and a meat pie.”
“Your money’s no good here, Gurnst,” Valk said. “You gave me and Otha the money to buy this place, and I won’t forget it.”
“Hear that?” Gurnst said, turning to Raine and Tyra. “M’ brother-in-law says it’s on the house. What’ll you have?”
Raine removed her cloak. “Fatty Finns for me, and a pot of tea. Tyra?”
“The same,” Tyra said.
“Lad?”
“Three meat pies and a haunch of venison, if you have it,” Chaz said. “Oh, and apple fatties and cider to drink.”
“Tro,” said Valk. “You’ve a hollow leg. Sit anywhere you like, and I’ll bring your food out to you.”
Raine chose a sunny table by the window to observe the festivities.
“I hope you aren’t planning to wear new boots tomorrow,” Tyra said to Carr as she took a seat at the table. “Mauric’s won the Hammer and Munch twice, and he says the last thing you want is blisters.”
This remark engendered a spirited discussion of the games. Raine, losing interest, turned her attention to the merrymaking in the square. A group of young rowdies staggered out of a side street, sloshing ale from the cups in their hands. One of them lurched into a woman in a dull green gown with a puce underskirt, and a towering yellow hat shaped like a chimney. Scolding him shrilly, the outraged matron whacked him over the head with her purse.
The young man dropped his cup and fled after his friends. Raine chuckled and propped her chin in her hand, gazing out the window. A grizzled warrior weaved out of the swarm of people and stepped up to the glass. An axe blade was buried in his forehead, and his face and leather vest were covered in gore.
“Hello, Raine,” he said with a bloody grin and waded back into the crowd.
Raine sat back with a gasp and glanced at her companions. Chaz had grown bored with the adults and was playing with a set of knucklebones. Tyra and Carr were arguing about fletching, namely, whether the feathers from the left wing or the right wing of a bird made an arrow fly truer. Gurnst sat back in his chair, listening to them, adding a comment now and then. If they’d noticed Old Hatchet Face, they gave no sign.
Raine returned her gaze to the window. An army of ghostly warriors filed past the Claw and Horn, headed toward the south gate. All of them had died in battle, judging from their terrible wounds and missing limbs. The living flowed through them, unheeding. A child stopped to point at the shadowy shapes, but his mother jerked him by the arm, admonishing him to hurry along. No one else seemed to see the ghosts.
Valk came out of the kitchen with a heavy tray. He set tankards of ale and lamb pie before the men, more pies and a piece of venison before Chaz, and pots of tea and a heaping platter of Fatty Finns in the center of the table. The scrumptious and highly caloric pastries were a cross between a doughnut and a tart and piping hot.
“Will there be anything else?” he asked, beaming at Carr.
Chaz dug in at once, eating with the single-minded concentration of a hungry young male.
Gurnst scooped half a lamb pie on his plate. “We may need another one of these little pies, depending on how hungry the roark is,” he said, around a mouthful of food.
Carr took a modest portion and slid the pie plate across the table to Gurnst. “That’s it for me. I’m in training.”
Gurnst grinned. “Right you are. The cap’n and I have money on you.” He waved his spoon at Carr. “‘Gurnst,’ he says to me, ‘that brother o’ mine is fleet as a hart. He’s the man to beat.’”
“Raven said that?” Carr flushed with pleasure. “Hear that, Tyra? I’m the man to beat.”
“Don’t get cocky, m’ lord,” Gurnst said, shaking his spoon at Carr. “The race ain’t run.” He finished his pie and eyed the plate of pastries. “Are the Fatty Finns to your liking, milady?”
“I don’t know,” Raine said. “I haven’t tried them yet.”
Gurnst pointed to the triangles of dough on top. “The ones with them little squiggles on top are brambleberry.”
“Would you care for one, Gurnst?” Raine said, taking the hint.
“Maybe a wee taste,” Gurnst said, dumping a pile of tarts on his plate.
Chaz helped himself to the platter. “I like the apple ones. They’re the best.”
After careful consideration, Raine selected a plump Fatty Finn from the pile and took a bite. The thin layers of pastry were crisp, the center filled with hot fruit. Closing her eyes, she tried to separate the flavors. Cinnamon, her tongue told her, with perhaps a touch of Valdarian brandy. She popped the rest of the tart in her mouth and chewed, her gaze returning to the bustle in the streets. It was early afternoon and the festival was in full swing. Many of the revelers had been drinking since daybreak, and the throng was noisy. Moreover, not all of them were human.
A mother troll pulled her excited cubs to safety as a group of young centaurs galloped past, and a clutch of woodland nymphs clung to one another in an alleyway, their arms entwined. Across the street from the tavern, a dozen warriors armed with spears carefully herded a forward ogre away from a cheesery.
“Smashed my shop to bits,” the irate owner shouted, shaking his fist at the ogre, “and glutted himself on curds.”
“That’s Gill Riffyn,” Gurnst said, noticing the commotion. “Every festival, it’s the same. He leaves his vats uncovered, and there’s trouble.” He shook his head. “It’s his own fault. Everyone knows ogres have a weakness for green cheese.”
“Look,” Raine cried in delight. “Fairies.”
“Aye,” Gurnst said. “The ale attracts them. Fairies love spirits, you know.”
Hundreds of the tiny creatures flitted through the crowd. Raine was fascinated with fairies and had spent long hours in the rowan’s library pouring over tracts about them. She made a game of seeing if she could spot the different types: mischief-making truds, lovers of small holes and tight places; otterkin, airy beings who dwelt in ponds and lakes; diminutive callies and wiggins, naked but for elaborate headdresses woven of flowers and bits of moss; industrious cobbler fairies with their sharp seamed faces; web-footed loamies, the farmer’s helpers; mischievous, gold-loving nibs from the mountains of Sethlar; and treacherous marsh fairies, spindly and brown as mud. There were others, too, that she could not name. Raine studied them, committing their features to memory. Later, she would ask Sadek about them. She and the librarian had become friends, and the library was a respite from the venom of Hedda’s attendants.
Suddenly, a troop of headless warriors tromped into view, their dripping noggins tucked beneath their arms. Their tunics were emblazoned with a pair of crossed axes. They looked neither to the left nor the right.
“Carr,” Raine said, dragging her gaze from the gruesome warriors. “What was that cheerful little tale Gertie told us the other night? The one about the fellows who lost their heads?”
“Lost their heads?” Carr looked perplexed.
&
nbsp; “She means Finn and the Headless Host,” Chaz said without looking up from his plate.
“That’s it,” Raine said. “How did the story go?”
“Let’s see.” Carr rubbed the bridge of his nose in thought. “As I remember, Finn paid a visit to a friend of his to the north, a Jargrave Harfinn, to do a little hunting. The jargrave had captured a Torgal beauty on one of his raids. Despite her objections, the lord took her to wife.”
“Her objections?” Raine said, frowning. “You mean, she was his prisoner?”
Gurnst slammed his tankard on the table. “She should have been grateful. He married her, didn’t he, and her a godless heathen.”
“Anyway,” Carr continued, ignoring this outburst, “when Finn arrived at the jargrave’s keep, the woman saw an opportunity to rid herself of her husband and strike a blow for Torgal at the same time, by killing Finn. She made her plans, spiking the ale with a sleeping draught. One by one, the jargrave and his men nodded off to sleep. Finn had drunk deeply, and dozed off, too. When everyone was asleep, the woman opened the gates to her brother and the horde waiting outside the keep. The Torgs slipped inside and killed the jargrave and his men, cutting off their heads while they slept. But Finn’s legendary healing powers saved him, and the sleeping potion wore off. He awoke as the blade descended, and barely escaped with his life.”
“I remember the rest,” Raine said. “Afterward, Jargrave Harfinn and his men appeared to Finn as shades, pledging their eternal loyalty.”
“That’s right. Finn was so shaken by his brush with death, that he issued a decree making it illegal to capture female Torgs.” Carr grinned. “The law is often broken, I’m told. Torgal women are treacherous, but lovely.”
“Was Jargrave Harfinn’s crest a pair of crossed axes, by any chance?”
“I think so,” Carr said. “Why?”
“No reason,” Raine murmured, watching as the last of the Headless Host marched past. “Just wondering.”
The dead had arrived early for the games and, thanks to her creepy little gift, Raine could see them.
Chapter 20
Rock Bear
A Muddle of Magic Page 27